


there's a chance we could make it now

by Sway



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, post 5x06 - Crazy Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sway/pseuds/Sway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 days. They keep him 30 days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a chance we could make it now

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first (and probably only) "Shameless" fic. It just wouldn't let go. So I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> The title is from “I believe in a thing called love” by The Darkness

It’s the longest drive of his life. 

Terre fucking Haute. Indiana. What kind of pretentious name is that anyway?

It takes them forever to get there. Lip isn’t a bad driver - he pushes the speed limits whenever he can, but it still takes too long.

Three hours trapped in the car with half the Gallagher bunch feels like this is some big fucking intervention. The only question being just who is the intervention is for?

Is it Ian because he just got them all into a shitload of trouble, stealing a car and a baby, driving off to who knows where doing who knows what?

Or is it Mickey because he thought he could handle this on his own?

They warned him, told him about their mother, tried to talk him out of it. But he hadn’t listened. Of course not.

And now they are here.

Terre fucking Haute, Indiana. High Ground, my ass.

 

*

The police station is cosy, as police stations go.

The cops are nice, too. Officer - or whatever his rank is - Hahn seems decent, patient. Thank fuck he doesn't know about the pound of pot in the car. He doesn’t comment on their motley crew of brother and sister and father of the stolen baby.

When he asks Mickey what his relationship to Mr. Gallagher is (which sounds so wrong because he's Ian - his Ian), the answer comes so fucking easy that it startles Mickey.

“Partner.”

There’s a quick glance from Debbie that stings more than it should. 

“Lover.”

That’s wrong somehow. It sounds fleeting, unreal.

“Family, you know.”

After that, it takes fucking forever until they process Ian out. 

Lip and Debbie get to him first. Somehow their hugs looks mechanical, clinical, like they’ve done it a dozen times before, going through a routine. They probably have with their mother, but this is Ian. This isn’t like that, this is…

Ian feels so frail when Mickey wraps his arms around him like he might just break if Mickey hugs him too tightly. He smells like vomit and disinfectant and floor polish, and his hands are shaking when they claw into Mickey’s shirt.

Mickey doesn’t want to let go, and if it wasn't for the officer carefully placing Yevgeny in his arms (Christ, that kid smells good), he wouldn’t have. So when Ian slumps against him in the car, all but knocked out cold from whatever drug they’d given him, Mickey keeps a hold of his cold and clammy hand in his lap. 

They've never held hands before, but now Mickey can’t order his fingers to unclench. He fears that if he lets go, Ian might slip away from him. He knows it is inevitable, that he has already started losing his grip on Ian a while ago, but now he will hold onto him for as long as possible.

It is an intervention for them both. Mickey knows that now. He knows that Ian needs help and that he can’t provide it. He has tried and he has failed, and now all he’s left with is this, knowing that they have to get Ian admitted whether he wants to or not.

 

*

The psych ward feels wrong the second Mickey sets foot across the threshold. This is no place for Ian. This is for the crazies, for the lunatics, for… people who are bipolar and who have psychotic breaks and steal babies and drive across state lines to Terre fucking Haute, Indiana.

Ian just stands there while Lip manages the paperwork. Every now and then, he casts a fleeting glance over his shoulder while he listens to the nurse explain the do’s and don’ts. He does so again when they ask him to sign the admissions form, and this time Mickey nods. 

It’s the right thing. The only way. 

That’s what Mickey keeps telling himself while Ian scribbles his name on the paper. 

The right thing. The only way.

Ian doesn’t say goodbye. He hugs Fiona, Lip, the baby, and starts for the gated door when Mickey catches up with him. He won’t let Ian go just like that, with only so much as a passing glance.

So Mickey pulls him into a hug, going on tiptoes as he does. He doesn’t care what the others think, doesn’t care if they hear the muffled little sob that escapes his mouth and that he buries into Ian’s hoodie.

“Can I go in with him?” Mickey knows the answer before he has even asked the question. It’s a futile attempt, but one he has to make before Ian slips away from him entirely. For as long as he can, he holds on to him, all but clawing into Ian’s arm before he finally has to let him go. 

Ian tries to be brave and they all know it. He smiles, but it’s forced and doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Mickey watches him go, disappearing around that sterile corner. He wants to follow him, tell him it’ll be okay, but he can’t. All he can do is stand there, and it’s all his fault. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, if he hadn’t insisted on trying to handle this on his own, they wouldn’t be here now.

And Ian would be with him and not on his way to a padded cell.

 

*

30 days. They keep him 30 days.

Most of it is just for observation, they say, to get him adjusted to his meds. 

Every now and then one of the Gallaghers tell Mickey how Ian is doing, but only if he asks. 

Once, after sitting in the waiting room for two hours, one of the nurses takes pity on him, giving him a brief run-down of Ian’s treatment. But she had also been unmistakably clear about the fact that it was an exception to a myriad of rules and that none of the information was actually Mickey’s business.

He isn’t family.

He is no one.

So he had spent most of those 30 days trying to come up with a plan. Ian would need to take meds. Most likely for the rest of his life. Meds neither of them had the income to pay for. They needed money. Lots of it. There is only so much to be made from selling moving trucks and lost suitcases. 

Sure, he could sell his ass for dough, but that isn’t likely to get them decent money either. And honestly, there is only one guy…

“Did you mean what you said?”

Mickey jerks up from where he leans against the side of the bed, his back turned toward the door. It’s become sort of his favorite spot over the past 23 days.

“Ian?!”

“On the voicemail… did you mean that?”

Ian stands in the door in the same clothes Mickey had last seen him in, hands stashed in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched, gaze glued to the bedspread that needed washing. 

“I didn’t know you were out today.” That’s a lie. Mickey knew and was anxious all day, but Lip made it clear that they would pick Ian up and that it would be best if Mickey stayed home until Ian was ready to come over.

“Answer me.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why haven’t you ever said that to me before?” Ian prys, reminding himself of one of those jackasses at group talks, always nagging and pushing.

Mickey remains quiet. He has no answer for that. At least none that would satisfy either of them.

“Can you say it to my face?” It’s ironic, really, since Ian hasn’t looked up at him for more than a blink yet.

“I’m worried about you.”

“No, I meant th…”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, that.” A crimson blush colors Ian’s pale cheeks and Jesus H. Christ has he ever looked more beautiful. When he finally looks up at Mickey, his eyes are glistening. “I’m sorry.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. Just promise me something.”

“Okay.”

“When things get this bad, you can... you can freak out, and you can cry and scream… and you can lay in bed for a month. That’s fine with me. But don’t you ever fucking scare me like that again.” Mickey pauses because that little voice starts to get the better of him. “Don’t you run away from me.”

“I promise.”

Mickey doesn’t hear him. That’s 30 days of pent up fear and rage and something else right there and Ian has just poked a hole in it. “‘Cuz I told the cops that we were partners and that’s what partners do, right? They don’t fucking run away from each other.”

“You told them we’re partners.” It’s not even a question.

“Was I wrong?”

Ian shakes his head.

“Can you say it to my face?”

“We’re partners.” That little voice must be contagious. “And I promise.”

“Come here, you nutjob idiot.” In an awkward scramble, Mickey climbs across the bed and pulls Ian into his arms, hugging even tighter than 30 days ago (if somehow physically possible).

When Ian pulls back he smiles and it’s the first smile - a genuine smile - Mickey has seen in months. “Actually, that’s politically incorrect. They refer to us as mentally unstable idiots.”

“I don’t care whatever the fuck they call it.” Mickey matches his expression and it feels so damn good that he doesn’t give a damn how foolish he sounds. “As long as you’re my idiot.”


End file.
